


get the best of me

by tatterhood (orphan_account)



Series: sweet disaster [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Kink Negotiation, Light BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 17:16:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6916105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/tatterhood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barry gets dragged to his sister's bachelorette party, which is being held in a hybrid night/BDSM club owned by a guy who hates Barry's guts.</p>
<p>It doesn't go too badly, considering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	get the best of me

**Author's Note:**

> I'm...not actually sure how this happened? But I blame scikopathik, who a) said "hey, where's that fic idea you were talking about?" and b) made this so much better than it would otherwise have been. General warning in the end notes.

Barry loves his sister. He _does_. So when Iris announces her engagement to Eddie, who's an objectively wonderful guy, Barry is genuinely overjoyed for both of them.

It takes him a little longer to realize the one downside of the situation: engagements mean parties, which aren't Barry's favorite thing in the world. Weddings mean _even more_ parties, and Barry gets dragged along to every. Single. One.

Including Iris's bachelorette party, which she's decided to hold in a club that's a) half night club, half BDSM club and b) owned by Oliver Queen, who is an objectively _terrifying_ guy. Who also happens to mock and otherwise torment Barry every time they're in the same room. Who publicly humiliated Barry the first time they met and barely seemed to notice.

Barry is a very, _very_ good brother.

But he's not a saint, so he definitely does his fair share of fidgeting and pouting on the ride over to the club. And in the club itself. It doesn't help that the party itself is about 50 percent dumb scavenger hunts, 30 percent terribly-named shots, and 20 percent obscenely-shaped party favors.

When he finally makes a (temporary) escape to the bathroom, he can't help glancing furtively down the hall at the basement door that leads to Verdant's BDSM-oriented half. This might be his only chance to check out a place like this without, well. _Checking it out_. And he's maybe been guiltily wondering about this kind of thing for a while.

On an impulse, he decides to seize his chance and look around for a little bit. Just a little! It's not like he's gonna _talk_ to anyone or anything. He figures he's probably safe from any Oliver Encounters—he saw Oliver upstairs a few minutes ago. Of course none of them are technically allowed downstairs, so Barry sort of sidles his way downstairs and thanks his lucky stars nobody else happens to pass by. He knows his strengths. Sneaking really, really isn't one of them.

The basement is, well. About what he'd expected, really.

Tonight there's a paddling demonstration on the central stage, and Barry positions himself at the very back of the room to watch. One of the club doms and one of the subs are up there. The dom's talking about avoiding deep tissue damage, etc., but it's the girl he's demonstrating on that Barry's watching.

She looks so _peaceful_. At least 10 people are grouped directly around the stage; Barry'd be praying for death and hyperventilating in her position, but she doesn't seem to notice them at all. Still, Barry can't help but imagine someone doing that to _him_ instead. (The someone might look a little like Oliver Queen. Barry will neither confirm nor deny.) (Okay, fine, it's Oliver.) His breath catches a little and he hastily snaps his attention back to the actual demonstration, face hot with embarrassment and arousal. It's not that he _wants_ to be attracted to Oliver, it's just easy to get caught up in hopeless crushes when you don't have any other real prospects. Barry just needs to manage his expectations a little better, that's all.

He leans against one of the pillars put up in the far corners of the room, and lets himself just _relax_ for a bit. His eyes drift shut, just for a second—

No such luck. "I don't think I've seen you here before."

Barry startles up from his (apparent) standing nap and fights a (losing) battle for balance for a few seconds before he's caught and easily reset on his feet. _Barry Allen, perpetual infomercial 'before,'_ he thinks wryly, glancing away at a nearby threesome who look like they're using about 10 different terrifying pieces of bondage equipment at once. "Um. Thanks for that. Gravity and I aren't always on the same page."

The guy's _very_ good-looking; not model-gorgeous like...some people...but he has a nice smile and blue eyes that crinkle up at the edges when he grins back at Barry. "Don't think I've seen you here before. Are you new?" There's an interested edge to the question that sends an uneasy thrill through Barry; he pushes it aside and smiles back, warm and easy.

"I—something like that, yeah." He punctuates the words by ducking his head down and rubbing his neck nervously. Jesus, he must look so fucking out of place here. "Actually, totally new. I'm supposed to be at a party upstairs. I just wandered down because I was...curious."

His confession earns him an even wider smile. "Weren't we all once. Which side caught your attention?"

Barry's barely able to say the word to _himself_ , let alone a total stranger. "I don't think we know each other well enough for that," he says carefully. "I mean, I don't even know your name."

"Jay. Jay Garrick. And you are?"

Barry shifts uncomfortably under Jay's gaze, suddenly heated and predatory in a way it hadn't been a second before. "Barry. But this is moving pretty fast anyway...I'm not sure I'm ready to talk about this stuff with you yet."

"Oh, I think I can guess anyway," Jay says, moving just a little closer. Barry hadn't noticed how _close_ he was before. Way, way too close. "You need help to be good, don't you." It's not a question.

Barry shrinks back. He's not historically great at following his intuition, but something about this situation is screaming _DANGER DANGER DANGER_ , and they're isolated from the rest of the room in a very worrying way. The part of him that spent most of elementary (and middle, and high) school getting beaten up in bathrooms starts calculating minimum safe distance.

"I was very clear about just how unwelcome you are here the last time you showed up, Zolomon."

And this horrible night just got _interestingly_ horrible, wonderful. Because Barry's rescuer's voice is definitely Oliver Queen.

"We were just talking, _Queen_. Having a nice conversation. Weren't we, Barry?" Jay's—Zolomon's?—voice is tight with barely controlled anger. His face is twisted, ugly.

Oliver, though, doesn't sound angry at all. Just terribly, terribly blank. " _Were_ you just talking, Barry?"

It takes Barry maybe 10 seconds to weigh his later (almost certain) verbal humiliation at the hands of Oliver Queen if he says _no_ against what might happen if he says _yes, we were just talking_. "No. No, he was making me really uncomfortable." He ruthlessly suppresses the pleasurable shiver that washes over him at Oliver's approving nod.

"You heard the man, Zolomon. _Out_."

Zolomon sneers and flicks a dismissive look at Barry. "Nothing here worth staying for anyway," he says contemptuously.

And—okay, that stings a little, which Barry knows is dumb. Oliver doesn't comment on it either way, just nods pointedly at the exit until the man slinks off. He waits until the door's closed behind Zolomon to round on Barry. "Jesus, Barry, what were you _thinking_ , Zolomon's the worst kind of bad news. And how'd you even get down here?"

_Yup, there's the humiliation_. The thought's tinged with resignation and a little regret; Oliver already holds Barry in so much contempt, and this'll sound the death knell on any chance Barry had at a cordial-ish relationship with him. He shrugs wordlessly.

Oliver stares at him incredulously. "Do you have any goddamn common sense at all, or do you just find the biggest asshole in the room and go from there?"

The part of Barry that got into too many unwinnable fights against bullies in school rears its idiot head. "I'd say I'm doing a pretty great job of it at the moment, anyway," he snaps. It doesn't _matter_ at this point what he says or does. Oliver's going to mock him for it, probably publicly, and Barry'll have to change his name and move to Australia or something to escape the endless ridicule.

But Oliver's got nothing to say to Barry right now, apparently. He's too busy doing his best impression of a really, really surprised goldfish, a look that's utterly out of place on his face. (What surprises goldfish? Barry's not sure. Piranhas, maybe, if you dropped one into the tank without any kind of warning, and really that would count as animal cruelty, even toward goldfish—but that's a thought for later. He's being Confrontational Barry right now, and Confrontational Barry Does Not Care About Goldfish.)

He feels himself slowly shifting from panic to anger. He doesn't get mad very often—at least not on his own behalf—but it feels _good_ to not be afraid for once. He's practically humming with the freedom of it. His fists clench at his sides and he can feel himself drawing himself up to his full height from his normal slouch. "Congratulations," he spits. "Hope it feels good to really finally strike the killing blow, huh? It only took a year to get rid of me for good. Are they finally gonna name you Head Dickbag, or is there a written exam too?"

Oliver's eyes widen when Barry starts talking, and he actually _takes a step away from Barry_ about halfway through. "What exactly do you think I'm going to do to you?" he asks softly. Placatingly.

It's the nicest he's been to Barry since, well. Since the night they met, actually. Barry almost laughs at the irony; of fucking course. He steps forward, crowding defiantly into Oliver's space. "Well, I'm no mental giant—which you point out about every other time we see each other—but I am capable of recognizing patterns, Oliver. I've been the butt of your jokes practically since we met. You fucking _love_ humiliating me. And this—this is _perfect_ for you. 'Barry Allen: a weakling even in bed!'"

There's a visible flinch from Oliver at that; he actually _winces_. It's a banner day for unfamiliar Oliver Queen expressions, apparently. The part of Barry that isn't incandescent with rage registers genuine distress and (impossibly) hurt.

The fury drains out of him abruptly and is replaced by remorse, leaving Barry deflated and defeated. He's never been any good at staying angry, anyway, and inflicting pain isn't as satisfying as he thought it would be a couple minutes ago. "I shouldn't have said that," he says quietly. "I'm sorry. I don't really know you, even, and I made a lot of cruel assumptions."

Oliver huffs out a brief, humorless laugh at that and runs a hand through his hair. "I haven't given you many reasons to assume otherwise, have I? And we both know I've said worse to you."

"And what I said was still wrong," Barry says staunchly. "Pain's not something you can _barter_ with; passing it on to someone else just multiplies it." He steps back to give Oliver—and himself—some space.

Despite Oliver's dismay at Barry's accusations, he hasn't given Barry any explicit reassurance about this staying between them. There's smooth stucco pressing against his back now, and he smooths his hands over it in a desperate attempt to ground himself and focuses on the nearest thing that isn't Oliver—the small rug placed right before the stairwell begins.

It's _hideous_ , honestly (not that Barry knows anything at all about rugs), but hideous in a sort of mesmerizing way. Everything clashes in the worst possible way, and the flowers half-heartedly adorning its border don't resemble anything Barry's ever seen in nature. His nightmares, maybe. It's awful in a memorable way. Not anything he'd want to remember, but still.

That might be why he startles so badly at the gentle hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," Oliver says softly. "I—you shouldn't ever feel weak for wanting what you want. There's no shame in submitting, and no one should ever, _ever,_ try to devalue or shame you for it. And I'm ashamed of myself for giving you the impression _I_ would."

Barry's native optimism, his general trust in human nature, is suddenly a potential liability. He meets Oliver's eyes unflinchingly, as fearless as someone shaking with nerves can be. "What impression should I be getting now, then? What would you do with me, Oliver Queen?"

He doesn't know what he expected Oliver to do, really. He just knows it wasn't what Oliver actually _does_ —slide the hand that's on Barry's shoulder up to brush across his mouth, humming when Barry's eyes (shamefully) slide shut of their own accord. He almost thinks he hears a whisper that that mostly sounds like _keep you_ , keep _you_ , but he's had more than enough vivid dreams to know how little perception really matters.

Oliver presses his thumb gently against Barry's bottom lip and inhales sharply when Barry's lips part obediently to take it in. Barry swipes his tongue tentatively over it once, twice, before it's suddenly being withdrawn. "What _should_ I do with you, Barry Allen?" Oliver asks softly.

_Anything you want_ , Barry thinks wildly, but he can't say that. He opens his mouth meaning to say something with at least a little dignity, a little reserve. What comes out is, "Whatever you want," in a humiliatingly breathy voice.

There's a considering hum in response. "Whatever I want," Oliver says musingly. His hand lands on Barry's back, guiding him like Barry's a Southern belle in an old movie or something. "I think we should move this conversation somewhere a little more private. Is that okay?"

Barry's heart pounds a little harder. Obviously there's no way Oliver means what Barry's wishful thinking machine of a brain wants him to mean, but that's—that would mean Oliver might—

Yeah, no, it's better to avoid that thought altogether. Barry pushes the idea away but lets Oliver guide him down the hall to a door marked PRIVATE in bold gilded letters. Why the hell not.

* * *

Oliver's normally actually pretty good at talking to potential subs and walking them through the basics/giving them a million links to read and telling them there's going to be a quiz. Normally.

In his defense, he usually doesn't have Barry Allen perched on his office couch, looking a little uncertainly at Oliver, who's leaning against his desk across the room. He's worrying his bottom lip just a little with his teeth, which is distressingly adorable. It's enough to throw anyone off their game. Oliver decides to start small. "So I'm guessing you don't have much experience with this kind of thing?"

It takes Barry a second or two to register the question. "I...no. None." The words are tinged with shame, and that's something Oliver can't countenance. He crosses the room and sinks down on the couch beside Barry, careful to keep at least some distance between them.

"Hey. There's absolutely no shame in that. Most people don't, and you have to start somewhere. I'm only asking because I'm trying to figure out what you know."

Barry's bright red now; Oliver resolutely does not think of it as cute. "I've done some reading online about negotiation and submission and all that? And, um, porn obviously, but I don't think that counts." He grins shyly when Oliver chuckles in response.

"Yeah, not so much." He pauses, weighing his next words carefully. "And just so we're totally clear before we talk more: you're more into the submissive side of things, yeah?"

"Um." Barry squirms back into the couch. He looks like he's hoping it'll swallow him. "Yes. And you're dominant?"

Oliver nods. "So there's that sorted out. We should probably talk about checklists…"

It's easy after that, really. Barry's smart as hell and sharp, and he listens attentively to Oliver's explanations and instructions. They set a time the next week to meet up at Oliver's place and go over their respective checklists (not something Oliver generally bothers with, but necessary for a first-timer.)

There's a long awkward pause when Oliver walks Barry to the door, broken by the sharp ring of Barry's phone. He looks down at the display and groans. "Oh, man, Iris is gonna kill me, I've been gone for ages. I gotta get back. I'll, um. See you next week?"

"Looking forward to it," Oliver murmurs. He can't resist leaning in and brushing a soft kiss against Barry's red-bitten lips. The wide-eyed, blushing goodbye Barry gives him as he rushes off, well. That's just a bonus.

Oliver closes the door behind Barry, then goes to his bathroom and splashes water, cold as he can get it, on his face. He lets himself tip forward and lean his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror, groaning softly. "What have I gotten myself into?"

This could wreck Barry _and_ Oliver if it goes badly. Oliver's going to have to be so, so careful here to stay open and gentle, to not fuck Barry up with what Thea calls his Oliverity.

And he's going to have to keep just enough distance to protect _himself_ , because he can already tell that Barry Allen's going to destroy all of Oliver's carefully constructed walls without even realizing it.

**Author's Note:**

> So if you actually made it to the end of this...thanks! There should be at least one more (super porny) fic in the series; I'm honestly not sure if that's a heads up or a warning.
> 
> General warning for Hunter Zolomon being a creepy, creepy dude and general mentions of BDSM practices/kink negotiation.


End file.
